It was a brilliant summer morning when Pikki opened the front door.
The earth from the garden smelled warm and lush. The ferns that grew profusely on either side of the front door were as robust as any fern growing on any forest floor. In fact neighbours were always quick to compliment Pikki on just how marvellous they were.
Looking across the street, the sun’s rays shone in broad strips of yellow between the trunks of a stand of tall white pine growing proudly on Mr. Robinson’s front yard.
It was going to be a beautiful day.
Pikki sipped at a cup of hot coffee, brewed just a few moments before. Full bodied. Flavourful. Hot. Just the way coffee should be served every morning.
Meanwhile, the robins were chirping, searching for that elusive breakfast worm.
Mrs. Riley’s Jack Russell puppies barked in their front yard. Pikki could hear the sound of Mr. Cunningham slowly maneuvering the big street washer down Ashburnham Street, keeping the neighbourhood looking clean and tidy.
Pikki took several deep breaths between sips of coffee. With eyes firmly closed and a broad smile creeping upon Pikki’s face, one knew by looking that Pikki was happy and content.
Taking a few steps forward across the lush, emerald green lawn, Pikki stood at the edge of the curb and looked both ways up the street.
Mrs. Collins was sweeping the sidewalk. Mr. Curtis was watering his prized roses with a curly, red garden hose. Young Wally Beamish was on his skateboard performing figure eight’s on his parent’s freshly black-topped driveway.
Pikki knew that an early summer morning- such as this one, could be akin to paradise. With eyes closed once again, Pikki breathed in deeply, standing on the edge of the lawn at the curbside, being careful not to spill any more coffee.
Suddenly, there was a noise- a splat if you will, at Pikki’s feet. Pikki heard the sound of Tommy Twosome’s bicycle bell. Opening eyes that had been firmly closed only seconds ago, Pikki looked down and saw the Morning Star newspaper lying on the ground a few inches away. Tommy turned and looked back at Pikki, waving as he swiftly paddled his bike down the street
Pikki bent down to pick up the paper, carelessly spilling some more coffee on the curb.
As Pikki bent down to collect the paper, Mr. Cunningham and his street washer swiftly swooshed by decapitating Pikki in a flash, leaving great splashes of blood and gore lying on the spotless pavement.
So, not all summer mornings are brilliant- or so it would seem.